Rhonda C. Poynter
THE LADY SITTING NEXT TO ME AT THE MEMORY CLINIC ASKS ME WHETHER I MIGHT BE ABLE
TO TELL HER WHY SHE IS HERE, IN THE FIRST PLACE*
I want to be helpful:
I want to drop my reputation as
Impatient because, God knows,
We're all in this together.
I want to answer as carefully as I
Check the house every
Night, now - she's a stove that I'll make certain is
Cool to the touch.
I want to be helpful:
Probably the same reason I'm here -
And then she nods and smiles, and goes back to her
Sewing, and
Bonnet ties trail her arms.
Lace is easy, for now, but
Outside the window, rain tap tap taps
Hurry, hurry.
* * *
CHICAGO'S LIGHTS
I can't tell you where I worked in '83
or '84
and the doctor's on my back to put
reminders on the stove and all the doors
I can't remember if my first car was
a truck or car or red
or green
I can't say how old I was when Newman
was overthrown by
Steve McQueen
I have no real reason for what
I like to drink and why
I don't recall when simple
clouds began to tangle
normal skies
but I'll tell you this
I know Chicago
and can walk it end to end
and go right to where my old man
met his woman
and where we'd always beg for light
again
I know the place I found
Jack Kerouac
salvation spilling down
the train yards and the
bridges
I still know my way around
the jukebox Johnny lines that roll
right down through Kankakee
I know to head for East Diversey
when there's folks to do and
things to see
and the doctor's on my back to
comprehend that
splintered stars and night
are coming in
but he can't understand
you don't forget
Chicago lights
Rhonda C. Poynter is a professional freelance writer with over 700 publication credits,
including Minnetonka Review, Sleet, vox poetica, Triggerfish, Blue Bear Review, Frontiers, Wascana
Review, The Lake, Houseboat and others. Her second collection of poetry, Borrowed Time is pending
release, and she has won or been nominated for numerous awards. She is widowed and she and her son Gannon
live in California for medical care, but are from Chicago, Illinois.
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